


Unequivocal Sacrifice

by avitrese



Category: Troy (2004)
Genre: Angst, Bondage, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-12
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2017-12-08 06:07:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/757970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avitrese/pseuds/avitrese
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU Hector is captured by Achilles after their duel. Patroclus is not dead, but in pain and an unstable condition. Achilles decides to make an example out of his prisoner. Sacrifices are made by everyone as one brother struggles to rule a kingdom and one brother struggles to survive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Troy.  
> I do realize that Troy (2004) was a historically inaccurate movie and I am basing my fic off that movie, so some things will not be accurate.  
> Warning: This is a slave fic. There will be language and torture (though not graphic).

Blurry lights swarmed in front of Hector as the bright sun assaulted his eyes. He winced and tried to bring up down hand in an attempt to shield himself from the brilliant glare. When he realized that his arms were not responding, he attempted to clear his foggy mind. He felt sluggish, weak; his last memory was an unclear haze. Hector yanked his right arm down, causing a sharp wrench of his shoulder. The pain cleared the fog in a jolt and Hector’s senses returned to him in an overwhelming onslaught. His weary brain registered multiple pains: the insistent pounding in his head, the burning of his knees, the ache of his back and shoulders, the tightness in his legs. He groaned and slowly twisted his head around, hoping to hear the soft pop in his neck that preceded relief.

             As he turned, his cheek scraped against a rough object. Hector opened his eyes, curious to know what he was so close to and why his body was in such a poor condition. The intense light forced him to squeeze his eyes back shut, a glowing red seared under his eyelids. He opened his eyes again, slowly and cautiously. He squinted through long eyelashes to see a wooden post at his back, mounted on glittering sand. Hector blinked rapidly, not wanting to believe what his mind was registering. He was a prisoner.

    He was kneeling on hot, burning sand with his ankles lashed together by rough, thin strips of rope. His calves were tied to his thighs. He couldn’t feel his legs, much less move them. As he flexed his calves, he began to feel the tingling of blood flowing back into limbs. Hector let out a laughing gasp at the sensation. It made every slight shift of his body feel like his skin was on fire. No, his skin was buzzing, like strange things were dancing on it.

But it was the heat that was the hardest to handle. Apollo was not having any mercy on him. Hector was almost glad that he didn’t have his heavy armor on. Instead, he was only wearing a dirty, small loincloth that draped over his thighs. The gray cloth was flecked with black dirt, contrasting with Hector’s bronze, unblemished skin. The sun was unbearable, his brown hair hung limply down to his shoulders. He could feel his hair plastered onto his sweaty neck. Sweat. Beads of it rolled down his face, his chest. The salt stung his eyes, making Hector’s eyes water.

Hector swallowed, trying to rid his throat of a thick, heavy layer of phlegm coating it. He looked around, dimly recognizing the Trojan beach that the Greeks had attacked on the first day of their conquest. He could see the sacked temple of Apollo up on its hill.

He pulled at his bonds, testing if there was any give to the tight ropes. There was none. Whoever had tied the knots had known what they were doing. Hector did his best to settle into a comfortable position; he knew that he would need his strength to get him through the day.

~~~~~

Achilles had been sitting by the bed for a few hours. His fingers ran through the soft hair that was splayed out over the pillows, combing out any stray tangles. He held onto the still hand, gently squeezing, watching the shallow, slow rise and fall of the thin chest. Patroclus. It hurt Achilles to see his beautiful, strong cousin on a bed, wasting away. The once tan, lithe body looked decrepit and weak. It was worrying; two days had passed since the horrible morning when he had woken up to the sight of his beloved friend hanging limply from Eudorus’ arms and Patroclus had not stirred since then.

That morning. Whenever Achilles thought of that morning, he felt a hot rage and had a sudden urge to kill anything in sight. When he woke up to find that his troops had gone into battle, he immediately knew the cause of the blatant disobedience. Patroclus had always wanted to go into battle. Whether it was because of a desire to please his cousin or whether it was because he wanted personal glory, Achilles did not know. That morning, the warrior had paced around his tent, muttering angrily to himself, thinking up severe punishments that could be dealt to to the impertinent, foolish boy.

When he heard sounds of clattering armor, he stopped his impatient grumblings and straightened his tunic. He stood tall and regal in the middle of the tent, crossing his arms, waiting for the stupid child to come in. Nobody stepped through the tent flap; Achilles stepped towards the small opening, about to duck under when he had heard a trembling, fearful, yet extremely urgent voice call out to him.

“My lord!”

Without waiting for an answer, Eudorus ran into the tent, almost colliding into Achilles. Eudorus was carrying a lifeless body. Blond hair. Black Myrmidon armor. It looked just like Achilles’. It was his. And Achilles was terrified.

He grabbed his baby cousin from Eudorus’ proffered arms and set him gently down on his own giant bed.

He nearly ripped off his cousin’s armor in his haste, tearing anything covering his brother’s chest away and throwing it to the ground. He barely contained his shout of anger when he saw a long, deep cut crossing from his cousin’s right armpit to his left shoulder. Blood had spread from the horrible wound, staining Patroclus’ whole chest crimson. Achilles stared in shock at the gash until he heard a small moan come from Patroclus’ lips, blood bubbling up at the corner of his mouth.

Without taking his eyes off of his cousin, Achilles spoke to Eudorus quietly, “Get me a needle and horse hair.” Eudorus snapped to attention and ran out of the tent to do his master’s bidding.

Achilles stitched up the injury with as much gentleness as he could muster, praying that Patroclus would be fine.

He stood up and walked outside, beckoning at Eudorus with his fingers to follow him. Once he was sure that he was far enough so that Patroclus wouldn’t be bothered, he let out all the fear and rage that he had been holding inside of him since he had woken up.

He whirled around very quickly, taking his second-in-command by surprise and he grabbed Eudorus’ long hair, yanking it down towards the ground. Eudorus cried out his shock and stumbled backwards, his legs moving wildly to maintain his balance. His attempt to stay upright was foiled by a sweep to the ankle, sending the man falling hard onto the sand.

“Damn you! You traitorous son of a bitch!” Achilles screamed at the coughing, gasping man, his voice cracking, “Fuck you!” He drew his leg back and slammed his foot into the prone soldier’s stomach, causing another fit of coughs. Instinctively, Eudorus drew his legs in and curled into a fetal position in a primal attempt to protect himself.

Achilles rolled Eudorus onto his back with his heel and started pressing down on his neck. The helpless man only lay there, in complete submission to the judgement of his master. Achilles, having finally reined in his feelings, said quietly, “Give me one reason.” Underneath those four gentle words simmered a storm of wrathful thoughts and inclinations. Eudorus looked up at his lord with tearing eyes and tried to swallow. Achilles could feel his Adam’s apple bob as much as it could through his thin leather sandal. He could feel the small but intense tremblings that racked Eudorus’ whole body and, staring at his most loyal friend’s fearful, pleading eyes, he knew that he couldn’t hurt him.

~~~~~

In the few seconds that had passed, all of the Myrmidons had gathered around their leader. As one they had went on bended knee, bowing their heads in obeisance, waiting for Achilles to acknowledge any one of them. He nodded towards a young man skilled in archery named Agathon who pleaded, “Please, my lord. He didn’t know. We thought he was you. He moved, talked, fought like you. Spare his life, please!” Agathon looked up in hope but was only met with cold silence and a hard expression on Achilles’ face.

“Sire, I’ll stay with Lord Patroclus until he’s better! I’ll-” Agathon broke off in dismay. He wasn’t sure that anything would be able to dissuade Achilles from executing Eudorus. While Agathon’s and the rest of the Myrmidons’ loyalty lay with Achilles first, they all had a deep bond with his commander. Eudorus was like a father to the rest of them. He offered comfort and support to those who needed it. He was a fearless leader who cared for every single one of his men and while Achilles was the shining, bright roof, Eudorus was the hidden pillars that held everything up and together. Without him, the house would fall. It would fall hard and fast.

“What would you require me to do?” He cried out in desperation, “My lord, please, I would do-”

Agathon was cut off by Achilles’ upturned hand and he breathed a sigh of relief as Achilles stopped putting his weight on Eudorus’ neck. Achilles took a step back and sat down heavily on the sand. He put his head in his hands and began to cry. Gut-wrenching, agonizing sobs. The men rose from their knees, looking at each other anxiously. Agathon had never seen the invulnerable hero show his emotions so openly. It scared him. It scared him that Achilles couldn’t control himself; the man had always been so strong, never wavering or unsure of himself, never showing any weaknesses. And here he was. Breaking down.

~~~~~

Achilles was lost in his past until - “My lord?” A tentative voice called through the tent flap. Eudorus poked his head in and, at Achilles’ beckoning, stepped into the spacious quarters. “My lord, your prisoner  has awakened,” Eudorus shuffled his feet around, staring at the bright woven rug he was standing on, wondering how he would phrase what he was going to say next. He wasn’t even sure he should say. His master was not known for being merciful and would not take kindly to being second-guessed. He hurried on before he lost his courage. “Please do not take offense, my lord, but...”

Eudorus trailed off hesitantly, drawing Achilles’ full attention. He looked at his faithful general questioningly. Achilles inclined his head, gesturing for Eudorus to continue.

“Is it truly wise to hold a prince of Troy hostage? Why didn’t you just kill him?” In truth, Eudorus was worried. Prince Hector was known for his cunning and strength. The close battle with Achilles had only reaffirmed Eudorus’ fears.  The prince showed bravery and astounding perseverance and resourcefulness. Eudorus didn’t doubt that the Trojan would be able to slip his bonds and escape. He worried for his fellow Myrmidons, for his brothers.

Achilles seemed to read his mind, “Do not worry, my friend. The Trojan has no way to harm us. I will make sure of it. And as for my decisions,” he paused to glower at the older man, “They are my decisions and mine alone. I would thank you, Eudorus, to not meddle in my affairs.”

The suitably chastened soldier stood aside to let Achilles duck under the tent’s opening. As the warrior stalked off, Eudorus took a moment to study him. His bright, blond hair shone in the light. Like a lion, Eudorus mused. No, his master is more like a tiger. For a lion is slow to act  while the tiger is relaxed but quick to spring. The tiger relies more on strategic  bouts while the lion depends on brute, violent force. Keen, insightful eyes and a menacing presence that makes others cower. Yes, he thought, I’m so proud to serve such a king.

~~~~~

Hector snapped awake once he heard the soft tread of bare feet approaching. He looked defiantly at the figure that was blocking the sun. A young, handsome soldier wearing a light blue tunic stood in front of him. Hector recognized the golden embroidery spanning the rich fabric. A Myrmidon. Hector knew plenty about them. Brutal and cunning in their fighting and strategy, they fought for no country. They only used their skills to further their personal name and riches. Their only allegiance was to a crazed, glory-seeking madman who had no sense of honor or decency.

He glared up at the boy and began struggling against his bonds. It was bound to be futile, but Hector was determined not to appear like a weakling. He bucked up with all his strength, yanking his wrists forward as hard as he could.  But all intent to fight back vanished when the boy squatted and swung up a dagger to meet Hector’s vulnerable, bare neck. A wave of fear washed over him and Hector couldn’t breathe. He closed his eyes and pushed his panic away.

The soldier reached behind his back, making Hector wonder what was in store for him. Torture? Probably. Humiliation? Definitely. As if he wasn’t humiliated enough. When a small water flask appeared, Hector almost let loose a moan. His throat was burning with need. Every breath coated his mouth with layer of sand. The swirling dust in the air went into his nose with every inhale. Hector stared past the small leather flask and focused his attention on memorizing every detail of a small dune up ahead. Hopefully, he could ignore the temptation, the teasing gift.

So his surprise was great when the man put the mouth of the container to Hector’s lips. He was suspicious, questioning what was in the container that the soldier would give to a worthless prisoner. But only pure, slightly warm water trickled into his mouth. He suppressed his desire to spit the liquid back into his captor’s face because he knew that he needed it to avoid dehydration. He also acknowledged that angering his enemy while helpless was not the most intelligent thing to do.

    Hector desperately sucked at the lip of the bottle, straining his neck towards the man, trying to drain every drop in the leather, not knowing when he would get another chance to drink. After a few deep gulps, the container was removed, leaving him panting for air. The soldier took a small cloth and poured water over it. Hector watched several droplets fall, forming a small puddle which sank into the golden sand; the only proof of its existence was a tiny darkened spot.

    He looked up only to shrink back as the cloth was drawn closer and closer to his face. The touch of fabric felt cool and refreshing as it was wiped over his face roughly. A sticky layer of sweat and grime came off to Hector's great relief. His task completed, the man stood up fluidly and walked off.

             Hector knew that the soldier did it all out of kindness.

“Thank you,” he croaked at the soldier’s retreating back. The soldier didn’t even look back.

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Paris lifted his head and looked into the waves. He scowled when he smelled the stench of burning flesh coming from the beach. The Greeks were burning their dead in large piles, sending black, foul smoke spiraling into the heavens. He cursed the Greeks. He hoped - no, he knew - that all of them would head straight down to Tartarus, lower than the realm of Hades, to be tormented forever.

Paris had been scouting the Greek camp for hours now and he was sure he knew the basic routes of the patrols and the schedule of the watches. Hiding on the crest of the sand dune, concealed behind a small shrub, he watched the small figures mill around the tents.

Right after the disastrous duel outside of Trojan walls, Paris had saddled his horse and rode towards the Greeks, following the light imprints Achilles' chariot had left on the ground. He didn't know if his father even knew he was gone. And Helen. Beautiful Helen. Paris prayed that she didn't think he had abandoned her. I have a chance to fix things. To make things better. To ease my father's mind. To save my brother. To do something that I can be proud of. A son that a king might be proud of.

He cringed at the memory of his fight with Menelaus. His cowardice had shamed his family, had shamed Troy; the look on his father's face was pure disappointment. Then on, every word spoken to Paris was cold and unfeeling. His father no longer held any expectations for the young prince. Hector had been the only one to try to comfort him.

~~~~~

Right after the battle, Paris had slunk off to his chambers. Once he had quietly shut the gilded door, he threw off his armor. Chest-plate, greaves, scabbard, everything was tossed carelessly to the cool, stone floor. He curled into his bed, not caring that his hair was matted with sand, knowing he was covered with grit and dried blood. He pulled the sheets over his head and watched a rust-colored shimmer go up in the air, lightly dusting the expensive silk with blood.

He laid there, desperately willing his body to relax and his mind to rest. Unfortunately, they wouldn't. I can't even win a fight against my own body. Some warrior, Paris thought bitterly. He continued to berate himself until he heard a light tap at his door.

The sounds of victory and celebration resonating from the feasting hall grew louder as the door opened, only to dim once more.

"Brother. And why are you not dancing and drinking?" Paris questioned, trying, and failing, to keep a neutral tone.

He felt his brother's weight settle on the mattress, tilting the bed to the left. Hector sighed, whether out of exasperation or sadness, Paris didn't know.

"Paris, why are you hiding in your room?"

"Don't mock me!" Paris cried out, clenching his fists, " You know perfectly well that I cannot face anyone. Not now." Paris barely managed to keep his tears from falling and his sobs from being heard. His voice wavered on the thin line separating sorrow and indignity.

"Why, Paris? Because you did not fight well? Because you could not best Menelaus? There is no shame in losing to a more skilled and experienced soldier."

"Do you know how many people died because I could not?"

Hector grabbed Paris' shoulders and pulled him close. "Look at me. Look!" Paris reluctantly, and with much difficulty, raised his head to stare into Hector's eyes. A strong, resolute gaze that held such compassion and love for the younger. "Do you think that the Greeks would honor their promise to leave? They would have stayed, even if you had killed Menelaus yourself. They are here to conquer Troy and kill anyone in their way. They are here for glory. That is what this whole war is. A miserable quest for glory by fools who do not know the meaning of the word. And as for our men, they are headed to the Fields, far better off than they were in Troy."

Hector stood up and opened the door again, peering into the courtyard. Paris followed him, curious about his brother's interest in the emptiness. His question was soon answered when three figures holding a large tub came closer. Two strong, muscled slaves, set apart by their bare torsos and feet, led by a pretty servant girl, struggled to balance the heavy container, filled to the brim with steaming water. Paris could hear her scolding the slaves for being so slow.

Hector had run forth to help the steaming slaves. The servant had protested, stating that he shouldn't be lowering himself to perform such menial labor. Hector laughed them off and grasped the edge; Paris could see the slaves' faces relax in relief as his brother's strong arms took the brunt of the weight.

They eased the tub through the door and set it as gently as possible against the wall. The slaves immediately backed away and stood near the doorway. Hector saw the growing anger on Paris' face and sought to console him, "Paris, I took the liberty of asking a bath to be drawn for you. You need to clean yourself if you wish to join the banquet."

"I have no wish to celebrate and no appetite for food."

The stony silence was broken by the girl, taking the opportunity to ask the princes if they needed anything else from her.

At the sound of the sweet voice, Paris turned to look at her. She was a beautiful young girl, her womanly curves beginning to show. Her round face was framed by small wisps of brown hair that had escaped from the hair gathered into a bun at the nape of her neck. Paris could not stop looking at the hem of her short tunic dress, could not stop thinking about what was underneath the flimsy cloth. Her full lips. Her eyes.

Eyes that only looked at Hector.

Hector turned to look at Paris questioningly and Paris saw the girl's lips drop and her eyes lose their sparkle as she regarded the blood-stained prince before she forced a fake smile. Before Paris could say a word, Hector said, "No, thank you. I think we can manage. You are dismissed."

The girl pouted, but moved away, beckoning the slaves to follow her. They bowed their heads in respect before departing.  
Paris didn't move, glaring at his older brother. Hector, with a teasing lilt to his voice said, "You do realize, Paris, that I could order you to wash up and come to celebrate."

Paris knew that Hector was joking, but the constant reminders of Hector's superiority were wearing his patience thin. Hector. The admired. The strong. The powerful. "Yes, my lord," Paris mocked, pretending that Hector's words did not sting at all.

He stripped off his clothing and stepped into the bath, letting out a gasp at the heat. He sunk into the water, the warmth enveloping him like a blanket. "Stop clanking around and join me."

Hector picked up the armor strewn across the floor and laid it carefully on a small bench. He pulled his robes over his head and folded it on Paris' bed. Ever the neat, disciplined commander. He took a washcloth and some soap and began to wipe Paris' back in methodical swipes. He admonished Paris softly to remember to clean and hang his equipment. Paris pretended to listen because he knew that if he didn't, Hector's small lesson would turn into a long lecture about the importance of keeping armor in good condition.

The water sloshed dangerously, close to overflowing, as Hector clambered in. He grabbed Paris, spinning him around so he could wash his dirty hair. Paris relaxed under the ministrations of Hector's strong fingers, running through his hair. He had slumped back against Hector's chest, his mind finally quieting as his brother muttered along to himself. And Paris felt safe. Safe enough to let his guard down. At peace with himself. Knowing that if there was to be trouble, he would be protected under the arms of his savior.

~~~~~

Paris had gone to the banquet. He did not remember much. There had been wine. A lot of it.

And now, all Paris could think about was how he had lied to his brother. How he never told him the truth about why he was so upset that day. It was not because he had lost to Menelaus. It was not because hundreds of Trojans had died.

He had crawled. Crawled on the ground like a dog begging his master for scraps. In a desperate scramble for his brother. In front of two armies. In front of his father. In front of Helen. To Hector. In that moment when he had fallen, all he could think about was how he didn't want to die. So he had run from death. Too cowardly to face the Underworld.

Humiliation and remorse overcame Paris and left a slimy, thick film in its wake. He tried to rid himself of his pain by physically shaking his head.

And now his brother, his savior needed saving. So Paris would go as far as it took to return the favor which had been given to him so many times.

He slowly moved around the Grecian camp, coming from the western ravine next to the temple. When he heard voices nearing, he stopped his progress to scurry behind a small, dried shrub. A group of four soldiers were bantering with each other. They paused and undid their belts, letting out loud sighs as they urinated onto the sand. Paris turned away in disgust, only to have his attention captured by one word: Hector.

"Do you think he's as good in bed as he is on the battlefield?"

"If he is, I can go beg Achilles for a turn. He can afford to share since he already has that angel from the temple."

"I'm not sure she's an angel anymore, not after spending a few nights with Achilles!"

Loud, raucous laughs erupted followed by some lewd noises and more laughter.

The one man who had stayed silent throughout the conversation suddenly spoke up, "I wouldn't recommend speaking about this in the earshot of any Myrmidon. They are like little bitches, following every command of Achilles. But they are vicious bitches. I think they would kill you."

"And Achilles," another man chimed in, "I've heard that he is the most ruthless man in Greece. He does not tolerate any disobedience. He kills everyone who dares to engage him, except for those who he wishes to enslave. But even they die by his hand eventually. If they grow too old to fuck or too boring to torture."

"Just a few days ago, some men tried have fun with the girl. Achilles fought them all off with only a stick. He killed over a dozen men but no one did anything about it. No one dares to raise a hand against Achilles."

"I heard that most soldiers run away when they see him headed in their direction."

They fell silent as their thoughts all turned to the same thing. The prisoner. "That poor bastard."

The man who had first voiced his concerns about their gossip shook his head and said, "No one deserves what is coming to that man. His tortures will be talked about throughout the ages. He is as good as a dead man."

"Well, now! Why do you hold any sympathy in your heart for the enemy! He's the damn leader of the Trojans! He deserves everything that is coming to him."

The jolliness of the group had long dissipated and left behind a somber mood. None of the men could muster up a happy thought after acknowledging the future pain of the Trojan prince and they walked back to camp as a silent troop.

Paris was going to save his brother. That night.

~~~~~

Thank you for reading! And thank you soso22 and Spiritblaze for reviewing. You guys have no idea what this means to me. I never knew that writing was so difficult. I seem to get writer's block every five minutes. Anyways, 'till next time!


	3. Chapter 3

The barbaric Greeks loved their torment of the helpless. Hector had now learnt this first-hand. One bastard had thought it would be amusing to prod at the captive with a dull spear, too afraid to even step near a bound man. Others had soon joined in. Hector had stayed stoically silent while the bastards were having their fun. Once he got free, he would make sure that he gained the same amount of pleasure hurting them as they did him. Oh gods. Hector prayed that those thoughts were the results of the sun and his current situation. He had always hated torture. The infliction of unnecessary pain and death disgusted him. He hated going into war, knowing that many women would not be seeing their loved ones again. And he always feared that Andromache would be one of those grieving women.

Hector swiveled his head around to make sure no one was around. Seeing only the flickering of torches, he relaxed all of his tensed muscles. As they loosened, he gave a whimper. He hadn't known that sitting still for so long could hurt as much as a knife.

Now for his escape plan. There was a sharp splinter sticking out of the pole. It would require some shoulder-wrenching to reach and progress would be excruciatingly slow but Hector could think of no better option. He didn't even know if there were any other options. He started to reach up, feeling blindly for that small, elusive sliver when one hand grabbed his bound wrists and he heard a snapping sound. Damn, he hadn't even heard the man approaching. Then came the silken words of the one man who he hated the most.

"Trying to escape? Trust me, it won't be this easy." The bastard's tone just reeked of arrogance and satisfaction. He and all the other Greeks had probably spent the whole day gloating about how pathetic and weak the prince of Troy was. When I get free, I will crush all of them and they'll shake and cry at the sight of my army. They'll wish that they had never crawled out of their whore-of-a-mother's stomach. And then once I -

Hector's thoughts were interrupted by a brutal yank of his wrists, which had been untied from the post. He was pulled to his feet and his legs promptly gave out, making him fall back against the sand. He was dragged back up, his body tingling from the blood rushing everywhere. His head spun from the sudden movement and the stars above looked like they were whirling around him. He was pushed against the wood, and saw a dark hood nearing his face. Hector immediately balked, weakly thrashing against the arm holding him back. Shaking his head violently, he prevented Achilles from pulling the cloth over his head.

"Be still!" Achilles hissed. He punched the Trojan, making his head snap to the side. Then he grabbed Hector's tangled locks and slammed his head back on the pole. Hector, dazed and in pain, was in shock and could only watch as the sack was pulled over him, the drawstring tightening at his neck. Hector was yanked forward by his neck, the drawstring serving as a leash. A fucking leash! Like he was an animal! Hector fought back, trying to pull away and digging his heels into the sand. Despite his efforts, the sand gave way under his feet and he was dragged forth, struggling every step of the way.

The darkness, the constriction of the hood, the stifling, hot air, filled with the scent of metal. Achilles' punch had filled his mouth with blood; Hector had no choice but to hold the foul liquid in, not wanting to spit it out into the cloth confining his head.

But the most terrifying thing was not his inability to see, but the result of his blindness. He had to put his trust - no, not his trust, he could not trust his enemy. He had to hope and pray that Achilles would not mislead him. Though Hector would definitely not put it past him. He inched forward, each foot searching for safe ground.

Achilles grew tired of the slow progress and he yanked on the lead rope. Caught off guard, Hector sprawled out on the sand, bringing his hands up to stop his fall. He spat out the blood that he had so carefully held in, splattering the sack, making it hot and sticky. He knelt there on all fours. Hearing, feeling his rapid heartbeat.

He heard Achilles' mocking voice above him, "We don't have any time for this, my prince."

~~~~~

Achilles felt a rush of perverse pleasure at the sight of the great Prince Hector. Kneeling before him. Patroclus would have his revenge if he got better. No, not if, Achilles thought, when. When he gets better. When he can walk around and talk and fight. Still thinking of his cousin, he continued leading his prisoner to a small, hastily-erected tent in the middle of the Myrmidon camp. Eudorus said he would be better! That he could heal of his wounds. So why? Why is he not awake?

And Achilles prayed. To any gods who would hear him. He promised them sacrifices, blood, glory in their name, anything, if only they could heal Patroclus. Raising his eyes to the dark sky, he repented for all of his sins. He begged for forgiveness and for mercy.

The next thing he knew, he was falling. His head hurt and his dinner was about to come back into his mouth. He flipped around, only to see a foot coming down at his face. Regaining his senses, he rolled to the side and scrambled up. A blindfolded, bound prince stumbled towards him. "Fight me! Fight me fairly!" Hector cried, his voice piercing the still of the night.

Achilles gave a soft laugh even though he was furious. He stalked around Hector who was struggling with the knots around his neck, wary of his enemy, but even more desperate to see. Achilles kept circling around the man, enjoying the way he struggled against all odds to win. Futile. Achilles darted at Hector, dodging one fist, two fists, swung in vain. He barreled into the man, landing on top of him when they both fell to the ground. Hector laid there, gasping for air in shallow pants, too winded to fight back as Achilles pinned down his wrists over his head. Achilles ground his knees into Hector's thighs, eliciting a pained grunt from the prone man's lips. Stretched out and with nothing to push off of, Hector was immobile. Again.

"Get away from me!" Hector shouted, his voice muffled by the hood.

Achilles smirked, "And why would I do such a thing?"

"Damn you, you fucking Greek!"

Achilles' grin grew wider and he shook his head in mock disapproval. "Such language. Not befitting of a prince. Didn't your whore of a mother teach little prince any manners?" Hector lunged up, snarling at Achilles, jaws snapping like a wild animal. Achilles shushed him, "I wouldn't be so loud. Many men in this camp want your head. Mounted on a pike."

At that moment, Agathon ran out of Achilles' tent, sword drawn and battle-ready. He stopped at the sight of Achilles straddling the prisoner, which, Achilles conceded, was sure to be a surprising sight. One that could be taken in a completely different way. "What are you doing?" Achilles snapped.

Jerking his thumb back to the tent, Agathon replied, "I was taking care-" he paused very briefly to glance quickly at Hector and saw Achilles' glare, warning him to be very cautious of his next words, "-of your armor. Like I promised, my lord."

"Finish it quickly and get some rest."

"Do you need help moving him, my lord?"

"Actually, yes. Hobble him and get me some cloth," Achilles commanded. Agathon ran to do his bidding and they were easily able to drag the now silent man into the small enclosure. They hooked his wrists onto a nail beaten into the support beam. Achilles forced Hector onto his toes and tightened the bonds, leaving Hector's calves straining to support his weight. Agathon left, going back to Achilles' tent to watch over Patroclus.

Achilles lit a lamp; the small flame illuminating the darkness. Hector was throwing all of his weight down, trying to free himself. Achilles stepped in front of him and grabbed his arms, firmly holding him still. "Hector, Hector, Hector. What am I to do with you? You keep trying to escape. Why? I'll tell you why. Because you-" Achilles emphasized his speech with a poke to Hector's exposed chest but then he stopped in shock. Hector let out a soft whine, so soft that any other man might not have been able to hear it. Almost indiscernible. But Achilles... He was blessed by the gods.

He froze. This was the first time that he had heard such a vulnerable sound come from the ever-brave and strong Hector. It astounded him so much that he just stood there, gaping at the prince. Hector seemed to regret his moment of weakness and he resumed his fierce glaring. Achilles frowned and, ignoring a flinch from Hector, ran his hand over the place he just poked. He laid his palm against Hector's hot skin and pushed, putting more and more pressure until Hector shuddered and tried to back away, which he couldn't.

Achilles brought the lantern up and saw the light mottling of bruises that covered his chest. Bruises that would darken over night. He was infuriated and demanded to know what had happened. He took the gag out of Hector's mouth and repeated his question, "What happened today?"

Hector did nothing, made no response, only glared. Achilles lost his patience and shouted, "Tell me!" Hector spat in his face and smiled, a fake, grim smile. Spittle ran down Achilles' cheek, and he wiped it off. Then, losing all self-control, he proceeded to slap Hector across the face with his wet fingers, smearing it on Hector's face.

"I've had enough," Achilles growled, "Enjoy your night." His face twisted in an ugly scowl and he matched glare for glare. He shoved the cloth back into Hector's mouth and stomped out of the tent in a fit.

~~~~~

Hector swayed there. He had long given up on struggling against his bonds. His wrists were chafed and bloody from supporting his 190 pounds whenever his calves had given out. His shoulders were aching far worse than they had when he was kneeling at the post, a sharp pain that would not go away. His head lolled to the side. So tired. But he could not sleep. Any attempt to relax led to more pain in his arms. It was a horrible cycle, one that would never let up. Alternating between standing on his tip-toes to bring relief to his arms and dropping to give his trembling, cramping legs a break. And his throat. It was dry, so dry. More dry than it was in the cloth fibers seemed to suck every bit of moisture from his mouth. Every swallow hurt.

He tried to distract himself from the torment by counting numbers. Solving puzzles. Repeating stories. Imagining beautiful places of paradise. Remembering Andromache. But the agony. It brought him back to reality, to the truth of his situation. So he stopped. Then he started thinking about his night. So much humiliation.

And then there was that soldier. The one who had come out of Achilles' tent. The liar. The very good liar. He would have fooled any other man. But Hector... He was blessed by the gods. The very short hitch in his breath had told Hector that the soldier had not been cleaning armor. And Hector had no doubt that Achilles knew it as well. Whatever had been in Achilles' tent was important to him and not information to be shared with Hector.

The secrecy only peaked Hector's interest. A particularly strong cramp seized Hector's leg, the worst one so far that night. The pain was so intense; Hector squeezed his eyes shut and bit down on his gag. His leg twitched sporadically. He couldn't do anything to help it. All he could do was dig his fingernails into the heel of his palm and wait until the cramp passed.

And so it continued.

He didn't notice the footsteps until they were right in front of him. He opened his eyes, but the inside of the tent was pitch black. He shrank back at the light caress of a soft hand at his face. "Hector."

~~~~~

Thanks for reading! So, yes there will be Hector!whump. Sorry. I'll try to rein it in, but please keep in mind that this will be a slave fic and there will be angst and pain. Also, if anyone has suggestions for a new title for this fic, I would be happy if you shared them because I'm not that happy with the current title.


	4. Chapter 4

The first thing Paris did was remove his brother's gag with his trembling fingers. Fumbling, struggling to undo the tight knots. Without anything preventing him of talking, Hector croaked out, "Paris?" in a weak, cracking voice. Paris had to jump to get to the rope tying Hector to the crossbeam but after a few tries, he grabbed the right end and yanked it hard. Without the bonds, Hector crumpled into Paris' outstretched arms like a marionette that had his strings cut, his weight bringing both of them down. Paris managed to take most of the impact, saving Hector from more pain, cradling Hector's head in his lap.

"Hector, oh my gods. What did they do to you? Shh, you're safe. You're fine. I've got you," Paris babbled, searching for words of comfort to calm himself more than Hector. After crooning to his brother for a while, Paris' tone grew more urgent, his words rushed and breathy, "Hector, are you strong enough to walk now? We must leave. We must leave now or else we risk being captured. Hector!" Paris hated to do it, but he drew his hand back and slapped his brother on the face.

Paris watched as his brother attempted to shake himself alert.

"Can you walk?"

Hector nodded weakly and, leaning heavily on Paris, attempted to stand upright. Seeing his brother's legs shake and his grimace of pain, Paris lost his firm resolve and pushed him back down. Paris was crushed when Hector wasn't able to offer any resistance. Instead he croaked, "Do you have water?" Paris shook his head regretfully. He took a closer look at his brother's split and bleeding lips.

"I'm sorry, Hector. We can get some once we get home," Paris gulped. If we get home. He shuddered at the thought of failure, "There is only one man on watch. He makes rounds every few minutes but mostly stays on the ravine. I was able to sneak past him but I don't know if a man in your condition can do the same. We could follow the shoreline to avoid him but it would lead us into Agamemnon's camp and he might have even more guards out. So I think we should chance the Myrmidon."

"Do you have your bow?"

"No, but I can do it," Paris couldn't stop a trace of childish petulance and resentment from creeping into his voice.

Hector seemed to sense these feelings and reassure Paris that he had never doubted him.

With a small smile, Paris said, "There is a small oasis a little way south from here. It is in the opposite direction of the palace but I have my horse stabled there. If we can get to there, we can go home." He gave a short laugh of relief, barely able to believe that his plan was going exactly how he had wanted it to.

Finally, Paris decided that no more time could be spared and he told Hector that they had to move.

~~~~

Hector grabbed his brother's shoulder and slowly stood. When they made it outside, Hector reveled in the ocean breeze blowing on his hot, sweaty skin. At the sight of the stars, alive in their sparkle, he felt hope flare up inside of him. The small flame that he had quenched once Achilles had hung him up came back with a vengeance. Silently, he thanked the gods for sparing his life.

He could go home and hold Andromache, kiss his baby boy, watch him grow into a man. Things he had believe that he would never be able to do again.

As they were going by, Hector was suddenly struck by a thought. A theory that he had thought of during his long hours of bondage and had temporarily forgotten at the excitement of a rescue. He commanded, "Paris, look into this tent. What do you see?" While his brother got to his knees to lift the bottom folds of the tent, Hector stood in the darkness, scanning the beach with his keen eyes. Apparently seeing no danger, Paris walked into the tent.

"There are two men," came Paris' muffled whisper, "One looks ill and I believe that both are sleeping." Hector followed his brother inside and what he saw confirmed the suspicion that had been growing since he had tried to escape. The cousin of Achilles lay still, his skin an unhealthy pallor.

Hector's first thoughts were of regret and guilt. He hadn't known that he was fighting a boy. A boy no older than Paris. He should've known the boy was an imposter. The lord of the Myrmidons was famous throughout the world for his swordsmanship. As Hector reflected on the duel, he realized the supposed lord hadn't moved fast enough. There was little fluidity between bouts; each clash had sent the boy staggering backwards. The stances and techniques were textbook perfect; an experienced warrior would have twisted the form to suit himself. He would have improved the basic and made it unique and extraordinary. Many clear signs that the man in armor was not a warrior, let alone the great Achilles.

And now, he was close to death. Wasting away. And Hector would be his murderer. As much as Hector hated Achilles, he would never wish such pain on him. The horrible sense of helplessness and loss, much like the feelings that ran through Hector when he watched Paris fight Menelaus. He had cringed at every cry, every ring of sword against shield. Had to use all of his willpower to keep himself from running forth to help. Such pain should never be inflicted on anyone, Hector mused.

Hector's next thoughts were surprising in a way. Hector had always considered himself to be morally upright and did his best to remain so, even in times of war. So when he decided that they would take the dying boy as a hostage, he was breaking all of his guidelines. Guidelines that he had served and followed his whole life. But the commander and warrior side of him could only think of how to survive. Even at the sacrifice of a boy, a child, a brother, a husband. Especially because Paris is with me.

Paris asked what Hector was looking at and he responded, "Find rope to bind and gag both. Do you think you can carry the boy to your horse?" Hector's gentleman-side squirmed at the incredulous, disbelieving look on Paris' face. Paris nodded uneasily, too shocked to make a sound.

First, Paris searched the small room for a bow which he eventually found under a set of furs. He stepped outside after Hector took the proffered ropes. He stood over the man asleep on the floor. A young, handsome man. Only following orders. Hector couldn't bring himself to kill a blameless soldier.

Blameless? Was any man in this war blameless? All had killed. All had destroyed families and lives. So was anyone blameless? The king ordered his generals. The tacticians and commanders sent their soldiers into war. The soldiers killed to live. There was no way to escape blame.

Hector drew his fist back and struck down.

~~~~

The bow sung to him. The curved wood gleamed in the moonlight, the string taut. Paris balanced the weapon on his palm and quickly tested it for flexibility, strength, power. One touch told him so much. He knew exactly how to shoot the bow as if it was written down for him. It was a fine bow, he marveled. He reached into the plain quiver, beautiful in its simplicity, and drew out an arrow.

Feathered at the end, metal at the tip, the arrow was an artisan's weapon. It took more than brute strength to wield. Taking the shaft into his hands almost reverently, he nocked the arrow. Inhaling deeply, he drew the string back in one fluid motion. His arms, trained to combat the rigidity of the bow, did not tremble. Staring down the slim length, one eye squeezed shut, Paris pushed the air from his lungs. And he let go.

What seemed like minutes later - but could only have been less than a second - he saw the silhouette of a man in the distance fall down, one hand grabbing at the slender shadow protruding from its head. With a surge of satisfaction, Paris grinned. A feral snarl of a smile graced his lips. It felt so right. The tension seemed to fly from his body, following the arrow. Tracing the wooden fibers, he felt strong, so powerful.

When he saw Hector, he nodded curtly, proudly noting the look of respect on his older brother's face. And it was not undeserved. Shooting with that level of accuracy at night and from over 300 meters away was not an easy feat. It had taken years to perfect his skills and instincts. Throughout his childhood, while people fawned over Hector's swordsmanship and ability with horses, Paris had become the best archer in the kingdom.

He hurried back inside, only sparing a glance for the fallen body on the ground. He slung the bow on his back, leaving both hands free to scoop up the young boy bridal-style, which he did without much trouble, surprised at how light and frail he was. Hector grabbed two swords and looked to Paris for direction. Paris surveyed the land and jut his chin to the direction from which he came. Hector led the way, Paris following behind, able to keep up with Hector even though he was carrying what he estimated to be about 200 minas of deadweight.

They kept to the dark side of the dune, moving as quickly as they dared. After only a few minutes, Paris was beginning to regret his decision to take the boy. His surprise at the boy's weight must have confused him because he had honestly believed that he could carry the boy all the way to his horse. His horse was about a league away. There was no way that he could do this.

But he had to. He couldn't back down now. He had said that he could do this. If he failed now... Paris didn't even want to think about it. He focused his eyes on the back of Hector's legs, trying to concentrate on each imprint of his brother's feet on the sand. Concentrate. Of course, forcing himself to concentrate on it did the exact opposite. His mind wandered.

Wandered back to that night. It was a happy night. His birthday. Apollo's day.

~~~~

He was turning twelve. Father had invited many nobles as he did every year. It honored the sun god, he said. Without a large celebration, Apollo would be offended. All the gods needed gifts to appease them. Without presents, they would obliterate the world in their rage. The gods are not kind, Priam would say. They are not merciful or loving. We are only here to serve. To please.

Paris had hidden his disappointment. He had hoped to celebrate with his family. He hated being with the nobles because all they did was grovel and pretend to be his best friend. They were not his friends. He didn't want another special day to be ruined by them, turned into a public spectacle. He pretended that he was fine, put on a smile. But he wasn't fine. He didn't want to go to his birthday feast. Not even his. Apollo's. And no matter what his father said, Paris did not believe that the Gods were merciless. He did not believe that Apollo did not care about his subjects. But that was besides the point.

Hector must have seen. He had always been able to read Paris. Paris didn't know what happened afterwards. All he knew was that, come evening, Paris was having a quiet family dinner. Just him, his beloved brother and his father. Yes, Priam had grumbled at the beginning but after some reprimanding glances from Hector, he quieted and began to enjoy himself.

It was the best birthday Paris could remember. They stayed in the small room even after they finished their meal. Priam regaled them with stories from his childhood. Dramatic stories of childhood loves, warfare and politics that Paris was sure his father had exaggerated. But he hadn't said anything, basking in the warmth of his father's attention and care. Then Hector started. Daring, exciting, and sometimes funny tales of training and fighting.

Paris could remember every story. He spent all the night, staring at the ceiling, repeating the narrations to the darkness. Over and over again until he was sure that he would never forget them. His best birthday. If only things could only be as good as they were then.

~~~~

I am so sorry about how late I left this, guys. It's been what, a month? If I said that I had finals, would anyone forgive me? Anyways, it's summer now so I will be spending a lot of time writing. Trust me. And thank you for the favorites, follows and reviews. They meant a lot to me. Love and kisses!


	5. Chapter 5

It was so dark. And even though Patroclus had never been afraid of the dark, he was terrified. It seemed like the emptiness was going to devour him; the dark like a cold, silent beast, just lying in wait to pounce. He was screaming at himself to move, to run away as far as he could. But he couldn’t move at all. There was nothing wrong with him. At least, nothing that Patroclus could tell. But he still could not move. His body did not respond to him. And it scared him so much.

  
He was trapped on the floor and he could feel his chest heaving, hear his breath quickening and rasping in panic. He had to be hallucinating because he could swear he just saw the darkness move. Thin, winding tendrils twisted together, tendrils that were, if possible, even blacker than the inky blackness behind them. It crept towards him slowly, only prolonging what Patroclus knew in his heart to be a painful demise.

  
So close. Oh gods, it was so close. Get away now! Patroclus could feel cold fingers grabbing at his legs, trying to pull him in close. He strained against his invisible bonds desperately even though he knew it was futile. Then he could move. It came as such a surprise that for a moment Patroclus forgot why he had wanted to in the first place. By the time he looked back at the dark, it was already upon him and he was trying to scream.

~~~ 

Patroclus jumped up in his bed, chest heaving and slick with sweat. He threw off the light blanket on top of him, frantically patting at his torso and checking his body for any traces of injuries or shadows. There was nothing and he let out a huge sigh of relief. Everything had been a dream. Other than his rapidly beating heart, there was nothing wrong with him. But everything had seemed so real. When he was fighting the Trojan, the sword that had slashed him had looked so sharp and the pain! The pain had been agonizing; it was nothing like what Patroclus had expected. He remembered wishing for death as an escape. Thank the gods that it was but a dream.

  
He quickly dressed and went out of his tent. He was looking for Achilles to tell him about the wild dream when he noticed that the camp was silent and dark. The Grecian camp was never silent or dark. Even at the dead of night, when the night watch were almost asleep and at their breaking point, the camp was alive with sounds: multiple whispers from sleepless men bled together into a very gentle, never-ending buzz, the heavy snores of men lost in their dreams, the sharp cracks of embers rising from the fires and occasionally the soft clanking of armor being cleaned.

  
Patroclus made his way towards the biggest tent in the immediate area, hoping that his cousin was not away. The foreboding atmosphere of the camp scared him; he was looking for the comfort of his family. As he roughly shoved the flap aside, he was almost blinded by a flare of light shooting out from a fire in the tent.

  
Throwing an arm in front of his face as his eyes adjusted, he noticed a still figure sitting on Achilles’ bed. A strong, sturdy shadow that could only belong to one person. Patroclus gave a little bow at the sight of his cousin and when he gave no response, Patroclus walked toward the bed. He sat down and took Achilles’ strong hands into his own. They were cold and clammy, not the hands of a healthy warrior.

  
“Achilles? What are you doing? Where is everyone? Achilles!” In his fear, Patroclus fell back to childish whining, his tone was one of a spoiled prince. When no reply came, he reached for the still shoulder. Then Achilles moved. He swiveled around slowly to look at Patroclus. And that look froze Patroclus, striking fear into his heart, fear greater than any he had felt before. It was the worst look you could receive from a loved one. A horrible mixture of disgust and disappointment. That look made Patroclus want to fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness, apologize for whatever he had done wrong.

  
But he just sat there, staring at his cousin, unable to make a sound.

  
“Patroclus. You should have stayed. Again and again. You always find a way to ruin everything!” The quiet rebuke quickly turned into a venomous hiss that sent Patroclus cowering in fear.

  
Trying to stay away from his cousin, Patroclus edged out of the tent as fast as he could, desperate to escape the oppressive, dark atmosphere that Achilles’ black mood created. He ran towards the waves, ignoring the loud yells that demanded him to come back, to stop being such a coward. Stand for your wrongs as befitting of a man! The cries echoed in his head as he entered the white, foaming surf. He walked further into the water, despite the fact that he could barely swim. When the gently lapping ripples slapped his face, he pushed forward off the sandy bottom, intending to fling himself to oblivion. He fell into a raging storm. Gentle became fierce. His body was being pummeled from all sides, thrown around like a dirty rag.

  
And he realized he didn’t want to die.

  
He fought furiously but to no avail; the sea was not willing to give up its latest victim and it held him tightly. Sinking below the surface, Patroclus tried to beat his legs through the water, his efforts slowed and sluggish from being underwater. Panic overtook him when he couldn’t make it up; he knew that he was going to die.

  
It will be so much easier to let go. After a little bit, there will be no more pain. You will be at peace. Safe at rest. And so he relaxed. He stopped fighting and twisted along with the water, letting it wrap around him like a blanket. Letting it rock him back and forth and back and forth.

~~~

Back and forth. Almost as if he was in a cradle. His mother rocking him when he was a baby. Patroclus stirred, his vision blurred and dark. This wasn’t real, was it? Why couldn’t he see? Was he blind? He opened his mouth to cry out for help but all that came out was a weak groan.

  
“He’s coming to, brother.”

  
“Stop, Paris. We will not harm him while he is of no threat to us.”

  
“Look at you! You were close to death when I found you and he’s the reason why. If it weren’t for this bastard, you would never be here! If we don’t silence him, he will draw attention to us and in your state, fighting anyone is not an option. So don’t get in my way and do not tell me what to do!”

  
Paris’ brother, Prince Hector, seemed to scoff and told his younger brother that he had never been close to death. Patroclus started as Prince Hector spoke right next to his ear, “Will you scream if I do not gag you?”

  
Patroclus cleared his throat a few times, trying to gather enough spit in his mouth to make his voice strong. He tried to keep his countenance calm and resolute and his voice from quavering as he asked, “What will you do to me if I do?”

  
“You need not worry,” Prince Hector reassured him, “We are not in the habit of killing the helpless young. However, I would have to silence you by force. It would not be pleasant.” The prince gave a small laugh devoid of any amusement.

  
“That is not necessary. I agree to comply with your demands and in-“

  
“You agree to comply?!” The other prince scoffed, his voice coarse and loud compared to Prince Hector’s gentle tones. He stomped towards Patroclus who was tied facedown on a horse’s back and completely vulnerable to anything Paris could do to him. He jabbed Patroclus hard on the side, making the injured man wince in pain, desperately praying that the others didn’t notice, “You are not in any kind of position to agree to anything. We are your captors. Keep that in mind when you think of doing anything stupid. If it weren’t for my brother, I would have you ca-“

  
“Paris, please,” Hector’s voice was tinged with irritation and Patroclus couldn’t help but gloat at least a little as Paris fell into a sullen silence. And so their little party traveled on. In a tense, gloomy silence broken only by the occasional clacks of hoof striking rock. And now that he was without disruptions, Patroclus could only think about an escape and how impossible it would be.

~~~

Hector was impressed. The boy had maintained his dignity throughout their journey. He showed no weakness, no terror. Truly the cousin of Achilles. But now he was worried for the boy. He was obviously in pain, letting out very soft gasps whenever the horse’s gait became uneven. Hector sincerely wished that they could slow down and let the poor lad rest but there was no way that was going to happen. Achilles could be tracking them right now with his band of Myrmidons and at the rate that they were going they would have no chance. So the boy would have to find a way to deal with his pain.

  
Hector looked away from him and turned to Paris. Or rather, to Paris’ straight back since the younger prince was stalking ahead of him. No doubt he was still offended. His shoulders were drawn up and his neck held stiff in indignation. Hector really should not have rebuked him in front of the other boy. But, Hector thought fiercely, Paris should not have been acting like such a child!

  
Sighing, he turned his attention back to his captive. He didn’t think that the boy was still conscious so he was surprised when he asked, “What are you doing?”

  
Hector almost giggled at the absurdity of the question. Then the smile quickly deflated as he suddenly remembered that the boy had no idea what had been happening for the last few days. And it was his fault.

  
“What’s the last thing you remember, boy?”

  
“My name is Patroclus,” the boy said in a slightly offended tone. He fell silent for a while, thinking, “I remember… I think that I was leading my – the Myrmidons to battle. The Trojans were coming but Achilles didn’t want the men to fight. I led them into battle against his will. Oh gods, he is going to kill me! What do I do?”

  
Hector smiled. Despite the boy’s supposed maturity, he really was just a child. Desperate for approval and too disobedient for his own good. “Do you not remember anything about the battle?” The boy replied that he had not and Hector decided to tell him everything. Well, anything that could explain the situation they were in currently. He wasn’t sure that the boy would keep his promise to be quiet if he found out the truth.

  
“I led the attack on the beach. During the fighting, you must have been injured. Achilles must have noticed you were missing and he came to find you. Once he joined the fight, I ordered my men to retreat. My men made it but I was not as lucky. I fought your cousin and he won. After a day had passed, my brother came for me.”

  
“How do you know that Achilles is my cousin? It is a fact that we did not advertise to many.”

  
Because your cousin’s faithful general told me after I cut you down. “While I was captive, I heard some men speak of your cousin’s worry for you. The whole camp was praying that you would make it. And even if I didn’t overhear the soldiers, it wouldn’t have been impossible to guess. He obviously cares about you more than anything.”

  
That brought a small smile to the boy’s face. “Do you know what’s wrong with me?”

  
“You were fighting one of my men and he laid your chest open. At the camp, I heard you had a horrible fever and your wound was festering from the heat. Does it hurt?”  
“Hardly,” the boy hung his head, in shame or fatigue, Hector did not know.

  
Hector tried to not sound pitying or consoling as he continued his story. The boy didn’t need to be ashamed of himself. “I was nearby when you were dueling my man. I was surprised you held up for so long. He is one of the most skilled men in my regiment. It was quite the battle. He was probably twice your weight! He could have probably killed you by falling on top of you!” Hector let out a delighted laugh as he created this giant, infallible character.

  
The boy gave a half-hearted chuckle and then proceeded to kill the light mood, “Are you going to kill me?”

  
“No! What gave you that idea?”

  
No answer.

  
“Boy –“

  
“My name is Patroclus.”

  
“Boy. Once we get to the city, you’re free to go. Don’t make any trouble until then and we should be fine. Understand?” When the boy didn’t confirm, Hector could feel all of his patience leaking out of him.

  
“Boy!”

  
“Patroclus! Fuck! Paris!”

~~~

Paris was still upset. How dare Hector, his brother, take the side of a Greek? I should have just left him in the camp for a few days. Teach him a lesson. He acts like he doesn’t need me. Without me, he would still be tied up! He snuck a quick look back at Hector and the Greek. And now they were talking. Like friends.

  
In his anger, Paris was horribly disgusted by his brother. Always making peace and befriending the little people. Always stopping in the streets to give alms to beggars. Always helping the servants in the palace. It had always annoyed Paris but this time it was beyond infuriating.

  
He directed his anger towards the small rocks in his way. Angling his foot sideways, he made sure to kick the stones with the sole of his sandal. No point in injuring himself. He could still feel a small sting through the thin sole as he punted rock after rock as hard as he could, imagining Hector’s face being battered to pieces.

  
He was snapped out of his fantasy by Hector shouting for him. He sauntered over to the pair slowly, making it clear that he was not to be called back and forth like a hound. A quick flash of exasperation crossed Hector’s features making Paris quiver before he reminded himself of his own unhappiness with his sibling.

  
“Why are you stopping?” Paris demanded as he marched over to Hector.

  
“Paris, he lost consciousness. We need to get him down right now.”

  
When Paris didn’t move, Hector took it into his own hands to untie the knots holding the prisoner’s limp form to the horse. He laid the prisoner on the sand and started to tear off his tunic. Even in the dim light of the rising sun, Paris could see the dark stain of blood, spread wide over the cloth bandage wrapped around the prisoner’s chest. Hector reached over and ripped a strip off of Paris’ shirt, ignoring Paris’ cry of protest. Paris sat back and glared at his brother. Showing so much care for a Greek.

  
“Hector, let’s just go. I can see the palace from here!” Well, a very far-away block from here. Hector ignored Paris and kept on bandaging the prisoner’s wounds. Then, Paris turned around. A small group of riders, kicking up vast amounts of dust. Heading straight for them.

“Oh fuck.”

~~~

I am so sorry for not updating sooner. Thanks for reading! I'm not that happy with this chapter; it was really hard to write. I hope my writing will pick up again, both in quality and pace. Please bear with me. 


	6. Chapter 6

“What?” Hector snapped. Receiving no answer, he glanced up at Paris and followed his gaze to the oncoming horde. “No no no,” he whispered. It was too soon. He quickly calculated how long it would take the Greeks to overtake them. Achilles would be upon them in less than five minutes at this rate. His mind raced as he sorted through the available options, none of which had a good chance of everyone making it out alive. Lost in his reasoning, his fingers slowed, barely tracing the makeshift bandages.

“What do we do? Hector!” Paris was panicking. There was no way that they could take on so many Greeks. They would be cut to pieces or worse. He needed Hector to do something, anything! When Hector returned his attention to the Greek’s injuries, Paris realized that he needed to take charge.

“Hector, leave him. Get on the horse now!” Paris jumped onto his mount and pulled him to attention.

Hector shouted at his brother to leave, “Bring help, Paris! Find Ajax!” When Paris didn’t move, Hector slammed a heavy hand down on the mare’s hindquarters. The poor thing screamed and bolted for the palace, racing for safety. Hector pulled out the sword Paris had give him and pulled the unconscious body up against his chest, leveling the blade at the boy’s throat as the riders pulled up. The circle parted as a resplendent black charger rode through.

“Oh, Prince Hector, now what do you think you’re doing?” called an amused voice, though it was belied by the man’s tenseness. He had no weapons in hand, but then again, he also had ten other men with him.

“Achilles,” Hector said, hating how his voice broke, “Let me go or I will slit your boy’s throat.”

Achilles only smirked, infuriating Hector to no end. _He thinks I won’t?_ He touched the boy with the blade, drawing a thin line of scarlet across his neck. Everything froze. Hector saw Achilles’ face twist in anger and for a second, those perfect, sculpted features were horrifyingly grotesque. The warrior’s eyes flickered past Hector and Hector knew he had lost. He spun around, knowing that anything he did would be futile and caught a heavy boot to his neck.

He fell to the sand, dropping Patroclus, dropping the sword, hands cradling his abused neck. He rolled onto his knees, forehead planted on the ground, gasping desperately, hyperventilating when no air was passing through. When he coughed, sand spiraled up, mingling with the sweat and tears on his face. He hadn’t even caught his breath when another foot slammed into his gut. Then another to his chest.

Hector curled into a ball, trying to protect himself, so the Greeks attacked his legs and back. Then the hits stopped. Through the fog and weariness in his head, Hector heard bells. Warning bells. Bells to call soldiers. Bells to alert the king. But it was too late.

They bound his hands and tied the other end to a saddle pommel. A voice and a sharp slap startled Hector, pushing him away from unconsciousness and towards pain.

“Die or live, it matters not to me, but for your sake, run. It’s a long way back and the sand will mar a pretty face like yours.” Hector had no idea what the stupid soldier was talking about when he was yanked forward by his wrists. With no way to catch himself, he was dragged on the ground before he scrambled up, panting and spitting out grit.

For a while, he thought he was walking on mud; the ground under his feet felt bouncy and soft. But he realized that his legs were just numb. Hector stumbled forth, grimacing as the horses picked up their speed.

**~~~**

Achilles was furious. That bastard had hurt Patroclus. The lad was sitting in front of him and Achilles was doing his best to spare Patroclus from the jolting gait. _I can’t even protect you in my own tent._ Achilles hated himself. He was a failure of a cousin, a guardian, and a king. He harshly berated himself as the sun slowed peeked over the water.

“My king, I don’t think your prince is going to make it.”

Achilles started. He hadn’t even noticed the young rider pull up beside him. He didn’t even realize how long they’d been riding until he looked back and saw no glimpse of the Trojan walls. “How much farther do we have to go?” he asked.

“Well, assuming you want to avoid talk of last night, we would need to go around the encampment. I’d say it would take another half hour at our pace,” the youth rattled off, clearly nervous but wanting to impress his liege.

Achilles weighed his options. he wanted to get Patroclus back to camp for medicinal purposes but other troops would report on his passings to the idiot Agamemnon and he would undoubtedly mock Achilles about the Trojan’s escape to the end of his days. Deciding that his cousin’s health was more important than his own pride, he commanded the column to head through the camp. The horses paced in excitement at the sight, eager for breakfast.

It was still fairly dark out and not many men were awake. But the few men who were up, probably on watch, raised such a ruckus about the recaptured prisoner that bleary-eyed soldiers began to poke their heads out to catch a glimpse. They didn’t dare to touch the Myrmidon prize but one brave soul in the crowd gathered enough courage to throw a clump of sand at the Trojan. Encouraged, everyone else grew bolder until someone threw a ball rolled of horse manure at the prince’s face. It splattered all over his cheek and into his hair and mouth, the force of the projectile knocking him to the ground.

Achilles watched him fall, unamused. He expected the prisoner to stumble back up because the horses certainly were not stopping. So he was more than slightly surprised when Hector just lay there, being dragged across the sand on his face.

He called to his men, “Get him up and back to camp.”

He spurred his stallion forward and left his soldiers to take Patroclus back to the tents. He dismounted, cradling the limp body in his arms and laid him out on his own fur pelts. Eudorus hurried in and they stripped the boy of his clothes, preparing him for examination.

Eudorus ran his hands over Patroclus’ pale skin, checking for contusions and broken bones. After a few moments of impatient grumbling on Achilles’ part, Eudorus turned to address his lord. “He ripped his stitches, but you did a commendable job of bandaging it. I doubt any infection had a chance to set in. His fever has not returned so I believe that he’s not in any danger anymore. You also kept his blood loss to a minimum. All Patroclus needs is rest. He should be up in no longer than half a day or so.”

Achilles sighed in relief and clasped his friend on the shoulder, pulling him close. He didn’t say anything but he knew Eudorus understood his apology. And Eudorus did. He looked at his lord with compassion and forgiveness and returned the embrace firmly. They stayed that way, completely still for a while. Achilles reveled in the caring touch. It had been so long since he’d been held in such a way.

They broke apart at the sound of the men clambering into camp, shedding the light armor they had donned for their small mission. Some man lit a small bonfire and everyone  congregated in the small clearing around it. Achilles watched them, his arms crossed over his chest as he asked, “Is the other boy fine?”

“His head will be aching when he wakes, as will his jaw. He woke while you were away and wanted to stay on watch until you returned, but I took the liberty of giving him a sleeping draught.” Eudorus paused. In a fair attempt at nonchalance, he added, “The boy is terrified, Achilles.”

“Terrified? Of what?” Achilles replied, wondering where the prisoner was. _Why are those men being so slow. I don’t have time to waste waiting for my own soldiers._

“Of you. For himself and for me. When he was conscious, he asked me if you would kill him. I told him that it wasn’t my position to presume what’s on your mind.”  
Achilles was stunned. The boy thought that he would execute his Myrmidons so freely? Achilles hand-picked all of his Myrmidons with the utmost care. He made an effort to know all of his mens’ names. He asked after their families and did his best to make sure they were cared for. He whirled on Eudorus and asked, “Do all the men think of me as such, as such a monster? I have done nothing to-”

“Achilles, your men would die for you. Not out of fear or obligation, but because they both respect and love you, as such they would an older brother. Agathon is young. He’s been raised by stories of the legendary Achilles. Stories of your strength, your prowess in war. He doesn’t know this side of you. Will you talk to him?”

“I will, brother. After,” Achilles promised. He turned his attention back to his men. He was about to yell at them when two men dragged the prince to the middle of the semicircle the Myrmidons had formed.

The Trojan had not fared well. He was unconscious, the only things keeping him up were his captors’ strong arms. One man, Silaes, offered an explanation, “He couldn’t go any further. Agamemnon’s men were hindering us so I threatened them in your name. They ran off but by then, he,” and at this, Silaes nudged Hector with his toe, “had collapsed.”

Achilles squatted, while holding his breath, to study the prince. He was astounded by the prince’s peaceful countenance. He looked so serene and calm, utterly belying his physical state. _Beautiful._ Achilles sighed and his next inhalation brought the overpowering odor of manure and a much-needed clarity.

“String him up on the post. Get some sleep. We gather once more when Patroclus awakens,” he ordered. Then he turned and followed Eudorus.

**~~~**

They  walked in to the sight of a naked man scrambling around, searching for his clothes. Achilles raised his eyebrows, watching the spectacle with amusement. Eudorus couldn’t contain his mirth quite as well and let out a short bark of laughter. He startled the brunette youth who looked at the pair in horror before rushing to kneel in front of them. He went down on one knee in the expected traditional display of submission but began swaying on unsteady legs and Achilles had to reach out to support him.

The boy flinched almost imperceptibly away from Achilles’ touch, making the warrior frown. The boy thanked him but now the king was in no mood for worthless profusions of gratitude. He scowled and loudly asked why the boy was nude.

The poor thing flushed and stammered and tried to cover himself with his hands while keeping his balance.

Eudorus, still grinning like a sun-struck idiot, shrugged off his long, outer tunic and tossed it to the boy who glanced up at Achilles, and after getting nothing but an icy glare, quickly pulled the warm cloth over his head.

“Eudorus, leave us!”

His second-in-command pouted, “Must I, my lord?”

The boy looked up in surprise and a hint of fear at the insubordinate response but his fears were temporarily assuaged when all that Achilles did was grab Eudorus by the arm and shove him outside.

Then the boy seemed to recognize his predicament and his relief turned into full-fledged terror. Achilles didn’t blame him. He was stuck in a tent with a frustrated, angry killing machine with a tendency to act first and think later. But Achilles was a different man off the field. In fact, he was saddened by the boy’s opinion of him. He’d be lying if he told himself that he didn’t enjoy his title as the best warrior in the world, but that wasn’t all that he was.

Carrying on his charade, he kept his face devoid of emotion as he stalked around the child. For Agathon really was a child. Barely of age, his initiation of war had only passed but a few days ago. And what an initiation it had been. The Myrmidons had taken the beach before the rest of the Greeks had even landed.

The boy had sandy, brown curls that he was growing out, though at the moment, they only brushed the nape of his neck. He had an open, innocent face, big eyes, and the last remnants of baby fat were giving way to a grown man’s features. He was tall and lanky, like a colt with too many limbs to keep track of. _Really a child._

“Explain what happened.”

“I-I don’t know, my lord. I can only remember Eudorus waking me. Please, my lord, is Patroclus well?”

Achilles ignored the question with more than a little tinge of guilt. He fixed the boy with an intimidating stare and asked him, “Do you remember the vow you took when you became one of us?”

The boy hurried to answer, “Yes, my lord. Accepting this brotherhood as mine own, I, Ag-” He began to recite.

“I did not ask you to repeat your vows,” Achilles interrupted, “I merely asked you if you remember them. Now, I want you to tell me what I, as commander of the Myrmidons, have the right to do to those who shirk in their duties or do not uphold their promises.”

“Anything you wish, my lord,” the boy replied quietly. He sounded resigned, accepting of any punishment Achilles chose to mete out.

“So say that a man made a promise to his king and he then broke said promise, allowed harm to a brother and then, on top of all things, failed to properly receive his king,” Achilles said, pointedly eyeing the boy’s tunic. Though the last charge could hardly count as a misdemeanor, he went on to say, “These are all grave offenses. How should a king proceed?”

“It is not my place, my lord.”

“Don’t feign obeisance with me, Agathon! Answer the damn question,” Achilles barked back.

In the same flat, soulless voice, Agathon said, “The oathbreaker should be publicly punished and subsequently executed.”

“That seems excessive.” Silence. “Is that what you need me to do, Agathon? Achilles asked. He needed a response. And though he knew he was being very cruel, he had to make his point. The boy would not be forgetting this lesson.

The boy’s shoulders were shaking and he could barely keep his balance though he wasn’t making a sound. They boy shook his head almost reluctantly.

“Look. At. Me,” Achilles demanded, punctuating each word with heavy implications. _Gods, I’m a horrible person. But the boy has to learn._ “Do you want me to punish you in front of the men? And then execute you?”

The boy looked up, tears brimming over in his eyes. His nose was running but he made no attempt to wipe at his face. His voice broke as he said no, still shaking his head back and forth.

“And how do you want me to punish you? A flogging? A branding? Should I give you to Agamemnon’s men?”

At that, Agathon couldn’t control his tears anymore. They spilled over, turning his face into a wet, quivering mess. He made broken, choking sobs. He clearly tried to stop but was proving incapable. He looked down in shame, at his failure.

Finally, Achilles gave his act up. He knelt down in front of Agathon and took the trembling, sweaty hands into his own. “I will not punish you,” he promised, “I will never harm you. Not only am I your lord, I am your brother, your protector, your friend. I do not take death lightly and I cannot imagine the day that I will kill a Myrmidon. You are family now, Agathon, and I love my family.” Achilles pulled the boy to his feet and clasped him tightly, pretending not to notice his wettening shoulder. Achilles rubbed the boy’s back, shushing his sobs like he would a baby.

They stood there, rocking back and forth until the boy’s body stopped sharking. “Now go and find some of your own clothes. Join us when you have composed yourself.” He patted the boy’s head, kissed that curly hair and pushed aside the tent flap.

~~~

I am so sorry, you guys don't even understand. I feel really bad about this, what, six month hiatus I went on? And it's not even that I didn't have the damn thing written because it's been written ever since September but I just didn't want to post it. So yesterday's Physics class was really boring and I went over my draft, revised a bit and here it is.

Sorry, this probably isn't even interesting. But thank you for sticking with me, new readers and old. Millions of thanks to that anon who encouraged me to get off my ass and post something.

Also, I realize that this chapter seemed really out of place and not related but I thought we needed to understand Achilles' love for his men. I don't even know what I'm saying anymore. Ok, bye. Wish me luck on the next chapter. Again, my heartfelt thanks. Tons of love <3

 


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: I am so sorry. Like, really sorry. What has it been, more than a month? That's super embarrassing and, honestly, I have no excuse. A few days delay, yeah whatever. Weeks of delay are awful though. I know. Sorry again. I'm really not happy with these scenes. They kind of bored me and even though I loved writing Andromache and I had more plans for her scene, I was just not up to fleshing out everything in my head. Thanks to everyone who stayed with me and everyone who reviewed. You guys know who you are. All my love to you.

* * *

"We must go back, Father! They can't be far off, let me have riders to go catch them," Paris pleaded.

"No."

"Why? You're throwing away the life of your son! How could you?"

"Enough, Paris. Leave me," Priam replied, to tired to continue arguing with his headstrong son.

But Paris would not be deterred. Shaking off the warning hand on his left shoulder, he stormed up to the throne shouting, "You were so eager to start this war! You said this would be an easy victory for Troy and now look at you! The loss of Hector has unraveled any confidence you once had. You're cowering behind your walls in your extravagant palace while Hector's life is in the hands of a monster!"

The court was buzzing with whispers as news of the prince's unmannerly tirade passed around the great hall. Priam gathered himself, shivering with the effort as he opened his mouth to chastise his errant son. But before he could say a word, Paris cried out.

"They're torturing him!"

Silence fell over the room, the high ceilings magnifying only the slightest shuffles.

"When I found him, he was strung up, hanging by his arms. He could barely walk. He hadn't been allowed water. He was covered in bruises," Paris said quietly, the walls echoing the acute pain in his voice. Tears gather in his eyes. Tears of frustration, helplessness, and anguish.

He had to restrain himself from running out of the hall, but managed to stay composed until the heavy door was closed behind him, leaving a stunned and wordless court.

And he ran. Ran away from choices, past his decisions. He ran away from his brother, his guardian and his protector. From responsibility. From what was right. And he ran to safety and comfort, hating himself all the while.

* * *

He burst into his chambers, looking for the one balm to soothe his aching heart. And there she was. In all her splendid glory.. And Paris was again struck by how beautiful she was.  _What did I do to receive such a queen? There is no beauty in the world that can compare._ He drank in the sight of her slender arms, her full hips and perfect breasts, covered by a sheer robe that only accentuated her nakedness underneath. Her curls had been pulled up in a simple updo, held with an elaborate ornamental pin, set with fiery gems. A brilliant golden crown rested on her head. He knelt next to the bed, took her cold hands in his and brought them to his cheek.

"Oh, Helen," he sighed into her palm, kissing it gently.

"Paris, I am so glad you came back safely. I was so worried when I heard the bells."

"Helen, I've done a horrible thing. I cannot go back, Father has forbidden it. The things they were doing to him! And I left him. And I should have insisted we leave the boy behind. But why did he take him? I don't understand why he's always so stubborn. He wouldn't have - we would have made it but he - why did he?"

He was rambling, his thoughts incoherent but he couldn't stop himself. The dam was cracking and a flood of emotion was ripping open his already injured heart.

But then Helen brought his lips to hers and all he could think of were those lips. So soft and delicious. She pulled away and put her finger to his lips.

"Peace, Paris. Don't think of such things, love. I want you to think about what is in our present. Think about me, my love. Think about tonight and what is to come. Forget your stress tonight, my prince."

And she took out the pin and shook out her golden curls. She reached behind her back and suddenly, the shimmering brocade fell to lap around her thighs, revealing creamy skin and slender curves. She stretched out and guided Paris onto the bed.

And he was lost.

Throwing off his light armor, his tunic, chucking his sandals into the corner, he attacked her breasts, biting and suckling until he squealed. She replied just as passionately, grabbing his hair with one hand and slipping the other to his member. He was already hard and weeping. She wrapped her long legs around his torso and pushed at his shoulders.

"Hold me down," she pleaded.

Paris grabbed her wrists and pinned them above her head, her pleas driving him to a ferocity he wasn't familiar with. He used his free hand to grab her head and bring it up for a bruising kiss. He threw her head back down on the pillows. Then he pushed inside of her. She was slick and the passage was easy. He worked up a brutal rhythm and gripped her wrists so tightly, she gasped with pain. She thrashed under him but pleaded for more. Egged on by her sweet calls, he finished with a shaky groan and collapsed by her side. Breathless, they lay there, unmoving, listening to the sunrise.

"I love you, Helen."

"And you are all I've ever wanted, Paris."

* * *

Her stomach growled and she giggled at the innapropriate sound, feeling like a little girl again. Or maybe that was just the sleep deprivation talking. She hadn't slept since the night before the battle, and that sleep had been a restless one. Kneeling on her chamber's cold, marbled floor, her only cushioning a thin, pale blue silk, she prayed. A prayer for deliverance, for salvation. She prayed to Apollo for reason and to Ares to give her love physical strength and to wreak war upon the Greeks. She prayed to Scamander, the river-god of the Troad, for one more attack on Achilles.  _Oh great son of Oceanus, hear me now. Raise up your waters once more. Finish your labors, thrice-failed but not again. Conjure your cascades, your deluges. Let them fall on the son of Peleus like hammer on anvil. Let them herald the death of the so-called invincible Achilles. Please. Please. Kill him._

It was the same mantra she had been repeating to the empty room for more than a day and a half now. And she would keep praying it until her wish came true.  _I have never asked the gods for much. I have lived virtuously, prayed religiously. Surely, the gods have no reason to deny me. Please._

A soft rap resounded through the high-ceilinged chamber. Andromache ignored it, hoping that the unwelcome interruption would remove itself if it did not receive a response. The knock came again to her dismay.

"Please leave," she called. Croaked. Gods, was that her voice? Rough, gravelly, hardly the voice of a noble lady, much less a princess. She swallowed, trying to sweeten her voice to its normal melodic tone, but the words stuck in her dry throat. "Korinna, I will eat when I am hungry. Feel free to finish the plate before you take it back to kitchen. Thank you, dear."

"My lady, it is Paris."

Andromache let out a gasp and brought her legs up to stand. Fatigued and weak, she immediately collapsed with a cry as her knees protested against the sudden straightening. At her yelp, Paris pounded his fists against the door, shouting her name. Then the door began to quiver as Paris threw his weight against it.

"Paris, don't break the door down," Andromache called weakly, "I'm alright, I promise." Unwilling to attempt standing again, she crawled over to the door and knelt up to undo the latches that held it shut. "It's open," she said before sinking down back to the floor.

Paris threw open the door and rushed to her side, hurriedly asking after her health and wellbeing. The concern in his voice made her smile. "Paris, I swear to you that I am fine. I am just happy that you have returned to us safely."

"You haven't changed your clothes. Your maid tells me that you have not eaten nor slept since the duel. She tells me that you sit in here praying without cease. You are not fine. I've brought food for you."

"Please, Paris. I'm really not hungry," Andromache protested.

"It's been more than two days. You have always been a wise woman, Andromache, don't be difficult." He brought a food tray out from the hallway and set it down next to the bed. He gently grasped her hands and began to pull her up when she removed her hands from his.

"I don't think I can walk," she bit out, embarassed about her feeble state.

Wordlessly, Paris picked her up in his arms, carried her up the short steps to her bed and sat her on the blue and purple linens. He picked up an ivory hairbrush and began to comb it through her hair, removing the snags and tangles with the utmost care. She relaxed under his ministrations and asked, "How is Helen?"

He glanced at her face and read into the underlying question. "How did you know?"

"There are bite marks all over your neck, dear. You are not subtle in the slightest."  
Paris blushed and they sat in silence again.

Finally, he could endure it no longer. "Will you say something?" He cried.

Completely startled, Andromache could only stare at him blankly.

"Scream at me! Tell me that it's all my fault! Tell me to go back for him!"

"I have made my peace with Hector. His death is not your doing and I would never tell you to go on a foolhardy mission. One with no positive outcomes and no meaning."

Paris stared back at Andromache. He couldn't believe his ears. He had expected rage, hatred, depression. Anything but a rational response. And all he could think of was, "He's not dead."

She gave him a wry smile and replied, "I wish he was."

Then she began crying. Tears streamed down her face and her shoulders were shaking but she didn't make a sound. Paris, unsure of what he should do, wrapped his arms around her and rocked her back and forth, praying that everything would end well. Praying that Hector came back for his wife. For his child. For him.


	8. Chapter 8

Achilles sat at his cousin’s side, absentmindedly stroking the slightly clammy hands with his thumbs. Patroclus was awake, but they just sat together in comfortable silence, enjoying each others’ companionship. They made unspoken promises that they’d never worry each other again. Achilles told himself that he’d never let anyone take his most precious friend away from him again. Their eyes met and Achilles, not wanting to break the sanctity of the moment, whispered.

“Never do that again. You are not allowed to die until long after I am in my grave.”

Though he was weak and shaky, Patroclus smiled brightly and said, “Achilles, I do believe you will outlive us all. Even Hades himself quivers at your name.”

He broke off in a massive coughing fit that left him gasping for breath and clutching at his chest, his smile morphing into a grimace of pain. Achilles could only watch helplessly and wipe at the boy’s forehead with a cool, damp rag.

“He will die a most painful death, I promise you, cousin,” Achilles snarled.

Patroclus sat up quickly, too quickly. He bit back a moan and Achilles pushed him back down.

“No, cousin,” he cried, “He’s a good man.”

Achilles stood up. The words echoed faintly.  _He’s a good man._  He’s a good man. Briseis’ words returned to haunt him.  _And what does anyone know about good men? There are no good men in the world. There's only the bad and the worse. And I am not even those._  Then he thought back to that red line, stark in contrast against Patroclus’ skin in the morning light. And he once more hardened himself, blocking out the uncertain musings and the strange flutters of doubt pulsing against his heart.

“No, he’s not.”

* * *

 Hector woke to an intense burning in his wrists. Using the wooden post in front of him for leverage, he pulled himself onto his feet. The sun was well on it’s way to noon and Hector’s back was already glistening with a light sheen of sweat. Everything hurt and his head was spinning. It hurt to breathe, to swallow.

He recalled the rhythmic breathing that had always calmed him down. His teacher had taught him the technique when he was just a boy, first learning how to swing a sword and ride a horse. Two deep breaths in, one shuddering breath out. He thought only of his breathing, even as he felt the eyes of seasoned warriors bore into his back. In, in, out. In, in, out.

He heard the sands shift behind him and closed his eyes. Twice in. Once out. He didn’t even flinch when he heard him. Achilles.

“You deserve to die, Trojan. Many and many painful times over, and I would carry out the sentence that I have set out for you. But someone told me that you’re a good man.” Achilles swung around the pole, careening into Hector’s vision. Then the Greek leaned in close and whispered, “What makes you a good man, Prince of Troy? Is the blood you spill any less dirty?”

Achilles grabbed Hector’s hair at the nape of his neck and shoved his head none too gently against the post. “What makes you so good?” Hector had no reasons, no explanations for the Greek. In fact, he knew he was in no way a good man. He had killed many people and destroyed many lives. Did it really matter if he was doing so for country or duty or family?

When Hector remained silent, Achilles stalked away after one last wrench on his captive’s head. Hector heard the command to begin with ten lashes very faintly as his mind was already retreating within itself. Again, he focused on the rise and fall of his chest. Anything to get him through the painful ordeal honorably, or die in the attempt.

 _You cannot cry,_  he reminded himself.  _You have given up so much and lost even more. Do not let them strip you of yourself. Of what makes you a Prince of Troy._

He knew of the coming pain and had steeled himself against it. Hector knew pain. But it still did not prepare him for the first stripe. First, the force of the blow rocked him against the post and he grunted at the heavy slap. Then the pain came, burning and hot, making his hands clench and his toes tingle. He ground his teeth together, refusing to let a sound come out.

Then before he was composed again, the second lash struck, lower this time. Hector gasped, but again made no cry. The pain came sooner this time. And it burned fiercer and the bite remained in memory for far longer.

Then another. Hector had never been hurt like this before. Who would dare to whip a prince? It was illegal to injure nobles, let alone royalty. As a child, he had had a whipping boy. His father had never laid a hand on him. Another blow. In battle, he had received wounds, but none had ever been so calculatingly deliberate. Indeed it was rare that a man could lay hands on Hector, Tamer of Horses.

Another blow. A groan escaped his lips before he could take it back and his short, trimmed nails found purchase in the calloused skin of his palms. Another. It was no wonder that Paris turned out the way he did. Discipline is key in everything, every action and every thought. And Father certainly was not agreeable in disciplining his youngest son, a mistake that had cost the city greatly. Another. Paris’ whipping boy was a miserable child, constantly plagued with the fear of another beating. And Paris never seemed to learn.

Another blow. Hector, on the other hand, hated the sight of the pain of others, and after a few initial beatings, he made an utmost effort to never cause another. Another. Now he understood that pain. The terrifying anticipation of every blow. The knowledge that he was helpless and alone. The acceptance that the end would come when the master said it did.

Another. And then nothing. Hector waited and nothing came. A breeze blew lightly and it was only then that Hector could feel the wet rivulets streaming down his back. He let out his breath in a huff, not realizing that he had been holding it. He unclenched his cramping hands and felt the warm touch of blood in his palms.  _That wasn’t so bad_ , he told himself.  _You will live._

“Have you had enough, Trojan? Will you answer me?”

Hector let out a choked laugh but made no reply.

“Let’s see how he can take ten more lashes.”

More? There was more to come? When the thrashing came, Hector couldn’t contain his tears and whimpered in torment and disgrace. He no longer seemed to have control over his limbs, his arms straining and writhing against his bonds, his legs heavy and unresponsive.

Then it stopped again. Was that ten? Hector had no idea. Everything was hazy and clouded.

“This continues, Trojan, until you beg for mercy and call me your master. Will you answer?” Achilles demanded, his voice haughty and arrogant.

“Fuck you, you son of a whore,” Hector breathed, no longer able to restrain his tongue.

“What?” Achilles roared, “What did he say?” None of the man answered, knowing Achilles’ wrath didn’t expect any reply. “Give me that!” he shouted, his true feelings breaking through the facade of calm he had pieced together for the last few days.

Then the blows rained down again, stronger and faster than before. Too fast for Hector to draw breath. Despite his promises, he was soon screaming and shouting and crying incoherently. His back was past being on fire. The pain was a monster, threatening to overtake Hector’s senses but not giving him the gift of unconsciousness. Or death.

“This ends when you beg me to stop,” Achilles snarled, words halting at every blow. No longer were the men jeering. Only the man crying. It seemed as if the whole camp had gone quiet but for the agonized cries of a man past the point of bearable pain and the hiss of the whip which so brought his torment.

“Please, prince! Beg for mercy!” Someone in the crowd pleaded. It was too much. This was going too far and Achilles was blind to it. A chorus of voices soon joined that one, urging him to relent. “There is no shame!” “Call him master!” “Please beg leniency!”

For all the calls, no one entreated the lord to end the whipping. They knew nothing would sway him at times of temper.

Hector thought there would be no end to his suffering. By this point, even if he wanted to beg for mercy, the pace of the lashes and the lack of air from his screams had rendered him speechless.  condemned to stay at the post until the embrace of death which was hopefully soon to come. The thought of thus was sickly comforting. Death was infinitely preferable to the life open to him now. His only regret would be leaving his family. Andromache. Astyanax. He only hoped that he would see them in the next life.

_Raise him well, my darling. Teach him honor is not taken with war and battle. Train him in the arts of the mind. Let him not touch a sword. Knowledge of warfare brings nothing but grief. Tell him not of my fighting prowess nor of my successes on the battlefield. Make sure he turns from violence. Maybe we will meet once more. And if that day comes, I will beg for your forgiveness._

The next lash was aimed at his thighs and Hector lost his already unstable footing. He sagged down, his arms extended and yet limp. A few more lightning-quick blows and Hector lost his senses to a welcoming black.

* * *

 All Achilles could see was red, lost in his rage as he was. The hand that wrapped around his wrist shook him out of his trance and he rounded on the offending man, fist drawn back for a reprimand.

“Achilles!” Eudorus shouted. Achilles quaked when he realized he had almost punched the living daylights out of his cousin.

“Patroclus!” Achilles shouted with equal ferocity, “What in the name of Hades are you doing here? Go BACK!”

“Can you not see that he has lost his senses?” Patroclus demanded, displaying a fury that Achilles had rarely seen from the fun-loving boy.

“Let go!”

“Continue this and you kill him!” Patroclus squeezed Achilles’ wrist harder and entreated his cousin to stop his madness, “Is it our way to torture the helpless, Trojan or not? This is against everything you have ever taught me. Give me the whip, cousin.”

“You defend this fucking man? One who tried to kill you?” All the fight went out of Achilles and he dropped the whip in shock. “Why?”

The look upon his face was so lost and bewildered that Patroclus felt a need to go comfort his beloved cousin. “Resume your duties, brothers,” he quietly commanded, “Eudorus, cut the prince down and see his wounds treated and cared for. I would not have him in pain, if at all possible.”

Eudorus looked at the young man, who, though injured, stood as tall as any man, hugging the king of the Myrmidons. He spoke so powerfully that Eudorus would never again doubt that the slight youth was not a lion. He carried himself majestically, so alike his older cousin, and Eudorus knew that he would be as great, if not even greater, when he came of age. Though he was higher in command than Patroclus, he deferred to him with a nod and acquiesced to his orders, noting that no other Myrmidons had challenged the younger either. They had seen him as a lion as well.

* * *

 Wow, I wrote all of that in a span of two days. If this is what finals does to me, I should have finals every week. But seriously, this history final is gonna kick my ass. Please wish me luck because I desperately need it. 

Again, thank you for sticking with me. I'm horrible with deadlines. Yup, guilty. But I hope you enjoyed the Hector!whump as much I enjoyed writing it. Next: let's talk about Paris. Not my favorite part of this story, but I think poor Hector needs a bit of time to recover. Everyone who favorited/reviewed/followed this, I love you. Sending much love. Mmmk, till next time!


	9. Chapter 9

He had never imagined a future with Hector. Priam’s first-born had been groomed for the throne ever since birth. Paris had never dared to hope for such a status. He had always known and understood the path that was set out for him. Marry well and establish or strengthen ties from the royal family for the sake of Troy. Yes, he had rebelled on occasion, wanting the freedom to make his own choices. But he knew that it was his duty and he never truly intended to shirk from his responsibility. 

But then he met Helen. 

Her beauty struck him by surprise. He had heard all of the rumors. Rumors of the most beautiful woman to walk the earth. But Paris was a prince. He saw stunning women pass by the palace on a daily basis. Princesses, noblewomen, and even serving maids. Rarely was a prince of Troy surrounded by plain-faced females. 

Even so, Helen had an allure to her that surpassed all others. Every step she took made Paris want to follow her. When she spoke, he was entranced by her sultry voice and couldn’t tear his gaze away from her red, red lips. She was a paradox. She acted like a young girl but played Paris like an experienced temptress. She made him feel powerful and strong, but innocent and naive. 

He didn’t know what his path was now. All he knew was that Helen was his present and future. They were going to start a family and raise strong and handsome children. 

Paris turned down the hall that would lead him to Hector’s private chambers. He was bringing a tonic that would increase Andromache’s strength. He worried about her health; she was only eating the barest of what she needed and she still had not left her rooms. The door was ajar and he was about to knock when he heard her gentle voice cooing to her baby. 

“There, there, dearest.”

“Da!” Astyanax’s cry brought a smile to Paris’ face, a rare occurrence in these times. “Dadadada!”

“Daddy is not here right now, dear. I do not believe he will be coming home for a while. “ She faltered and corrected herself. “I do not believe he will come home,” Andromache’s voice broke a little as she voiced her greatest fear for the first time. She took a deep breath, letting it out in a shuddering gasp. “Would you like to hear a story about daddy?”

She started to spin a tale about her first meeting with her husband, how she had rejected him when he treated her like she was helpless. Paris remembered it all too well. Hector had wandered into his chambers, morose and despairing about this beautiful girl he met who hated him for no reason at all. Paris had urged him to forget about her; there were so many other girls who would kill to be acquainted with the crown prince of Troy. 

But still Hector stubbornly pursued her. For more than two years, he tried to woo her, much to her annoyance and Paris’ frustration.  Then one dark and stormy night,, he sat outside of her house and fell sick. Upon finding him shivering, she was taken by true love and brought him soup where he then professed his undying gratitude for her and she agreed to allow him to court her. 

At least, that’s how Hector had told it. 

* * *

Andromache clarified in her story that Hector had been drunk out of his mind and could only babble in incoherent sentences about opposites and ice and fire and true love being the strongest thing in the world. She had angrily told him to take the soup and go back to the palace. He had begun stumbling away when he tripped on the road and landed hard on the ground. Andromache ran to her father, a noble in King Priam’s court, and told him that Prince Hector needed an escort back to the palace. 

The next day, a penitent Hector re-appeared on her doorstep. He apologized and asked for one last chance. And she refused him again. 

Over the next few months, they saw each other on a regular basis. He would awkwardly avoid making eye-contact with her, staring at the ground whenever she walked past. She tried to keep things casual and friendly, but Hector seemed determined to stay away from her. Surprisingly, she felt the loss of his presence very strongly. She missed talking to him, missed laughing at all the crazy things he would do to impress her. 

One day, King Priam hosted an elaborate dinner for the wealthier nobles (noticeably ones with daughters) and Andromache arrived to find that her place was right to the right of Hector’s own setting. As she approached her designated chair, Hector jumped up to pull it out for her, all the while not looking up from the tiled floor. She thanked him with a shy smile, to which he nodded, again without raising his head. 

King Priam noticed the scene with amusement and Andromache looked away and blushed. She perched gingerly on the edge of her seat as she waited for the food to arrive, intent on cleaning her fingernails. It was a nasty habit that she’d never broken and her father slapped at her wrists when he saw her. 

Properly reprimanded, she had nothing else to do than stare at her hands. Ignoring meaningful looks from her mother and exasperated looks from her father, she tried to relax and promised herself that she would enjoy this evening and not let one pouting prince ruin her night. 

Halfway through the banquet, she was failing miserably. 

She glanced at Hector, but he was staring determinedly at the small eel sprawled haphazardly across his plate. She hesitated before deciding that even awkward conversation was better than their self-imposed silence. She turned to Hector, idly wondering how fascinating a piece of eel could be. 

“My lord? How have you been? You seem to have been quite busy this last week,” Andromache cringed. It was a weak attempt and she berated herself for her lack of creativity. 

“Yes,” Hector replied. His gaze never left the limp, unappetizing-looking piece of meat in front of him.

Delightful. Even eels were more fascinating than her conversation. 

She scowled and stabbed angrily at her own food. Oh, so the brute didn’t even deign to grace her with a complete sentence. What a perfect gentleman. She speared the grapes on her plate and imagined that she was stabbing a much more sensitive body part. Her mother looked over at her with concern, but Andromache was past caring. 

She managed to avoid him when the lords and ladies got up to dance. Amid the young and desperate twirlers, she made sure that he never had the chance to be her partner. 

But then her parents, her ever caring and loving parents, stepped in. 

And that’s how Andromache found herself glaring over Hector’s broad shoulder. 

If Andromache wasn’t fuming so much, she would’ve found the whole encounter very awkward. Hector’s silence only exacerbated her already dark mood and her scowl quickly morphed into barely disguised tears of anger. 

Her nose began to run and she sniffed as discreetly as possible. That drew Hector's attention. 

"My lady, is everything alright?"

How dare he? "I'm fine," she bit out. 

He pulled away and held her shoulders still even as she tried to turn around and hide her face. "You're crying," he said. 

"I'm not," she insisted, letting go of his hand so she could wipe her face. It came back streaked with tears and kohl. She gave a little gasp and tried to wipe it on her dress. Without a second of hesitation, Hector grabbed her fingers. 

She looked up at him in shock. He blushed and said, "Forgive my presumption, my lady. I did not want you to ruin your dress."

She stared, mouth open wide in what she was sure was an attractive look. Then she shoved him. She placed both her palms flat against his chest and pushed as hard as she could. 

He stumbled backward and almost knocked over another happy couple. 

The nerve of him! To be so gracious and polite when he had no right to do so. What was he getting out of by being so kind? 

"Wha- what was that for?"

"You! You make me so angry! And I strongly dislike you!" she pushed him again, "First you ignore me, and then you care whether I soil my attire. I will never understand you!" 

Hector's confusion slowly gave way to his own anger. "Well, I never asked you to! You made it perfectly clear that you want no part in my life. So don't be offended when you aren't!" He hissed. 

Andromache turned on her heel and pushed through the staring dance partners. Once she was free of the crowd, she broke into a run. She felt more tears come to her eyes and tried to blink them away. She didn’t understand why she was so upset, why his words are injured her so. And yet her chest was aching and her shoulders sagged from the weight of his brutal truths. 

She was startled out of her misery when a gentle hand clasped at her arm. She whirled around to demand some privacy, only to discover that she was facing the crown prince of Troy. They stared at each other, the silence growing into a large, awkward thing between them. 

“I’m sorry, my lady, for my careless words. I never meant to shame you or hurt you. If there is any way I can make amends, you only need to ask.” Hector waited for a reply, and when none seemed forthcoming, he bowed and turned to leave.

“Why have you been avoiding my company?” Andromache blurted out, the words spilling from her unbidden. She immediately regretted how ignorant she sounded. She had rejected him; there was no reason he would still want her attentions. 

“I didn’t think you wanted  _ my _ company,” Hector replied, “Is that not so?”

“I don’t know what I want, prince. But I miss your...conversation,” she ended lamely. 

Instead of laughing at the flush spreading all over her face, Hector invited her to sit with him in the large foyer. There, with the company of two stony-faced guards, they proceeded to discuss his riding, her tricks to avoid lyre lessons, the weather, the endless hounding from mothers to find a match. 

When the page ran up, Andromache was laughing so hard that her sides were aching and her tears were no longer shed in sadness. Hector was grinning delightedly as he watched her. Loath to disturb the happy scene, the page cleared his throat apologetically, “Prince Hector, your mother requires your presence in the great hall.”

Ever the dutiful son, Hector stood to return to the many commitments that a future king has. “My lady, would you accept an invitation to converse again? In the near future, perhaps?” 

Andromache could only smile and nod. 

* * *

At the end of her story, Astyanax was sleeping peacefully. She smoothed his sparse hair back, looking for her husband in his small features. She found it in his aristocratic nose and dark eyes and she promised never to forget.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A humongous thank you to Witch's Soul. Without your kick to my ass, I would've probably let this fic rot. It's been so crazy long, I can't even believe it! I've kind of been lost in this story; I don't know where I want to go with it. I've been trying different POVs but I don't think I'm writing them very well. Let me know what you guys think, or what you want to see more of! Much love to all my readers. Thank you all so much for sticking with me.


End file.
